Button Holed (16 page)

She ripped her paper napkin into tiny pieces and kept her gaze on the shreds. “Something like that,” she said. “No offense intended.”

I wasn’t in the mood to offer the all-forgiving
none taken
but I decided to hedge my bets. In the last days, I’d run into two burly burglars, had a customer murdered and discovered the body, and nearly been sent to the final beyond by a mountain bike. It was beginning to look more and more like the button business wasn’t for wusses.

But my fragile ego wasn’t what we were talking about. We were talking about murder.

Only Wynona didn’t have to know that.

“Who are you talking about, Wynona? Who do you think didn’t notice you? Miss Franciscus? Or the other assistants?”

“I wouldn’t have even gotten the job if that other girl didn’t get sick and they weren’t desperate.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “And I was grateful, don’t get me wrong. But that’s pretty much the way they all looked at me, kind of as an afterthought. Not that I’m bitter or anything.”

This time I calmed her fears with a quick “Not to worry,” partly because Wynona was so sweet, I didn’t want to see her get upset, but mostly because bitter was exactly what I was counting on. If Wynona was feeling resentful, maybe she’d be willing to spill the beans about her former employer and her fellow employees. If she knew anything worth spilling, that is.

I’d already stirred my coffee plenty, but I gave it another whirl. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who’s all that into gossip,” I told her. “Whatever you think, you can tell me, and I’ll know you’re not saying it just because you’re holding a grudge.”

“I went to the zoo yesterday,” Wynona said, “and I was watching the hyenas and reading about them, too. That’s what they remind me of.”

“They . . ?”

She bobbed her head. “Margot and Sloan and that snotty Blake girl. The minute one of them does something that’s the tiniest little bit wrong, the others pounce. You know, like hyenas on a carcass.”

It was an uncomfortable comparison, but then, murder is an uncomfortable subject.

“And you think . . .”

She leaned forward. “I can’t say. Not for sure, of course. But I think one of them must have taken Miss Franciscus’s pearls. I know for a fact, I didn’t. And nobody else was around upstairs in those rooms they gave us to use while they were filming the movie. If the pearls were there, then one of the other assistants took them.”

Interesting. Before I had a chance to point it out, Wynona leaned closer.

“One of them must have killed her, too, don’t you think? They didn’t like her, you know. Not one bit. Margot thought she was every bit as good as Miss Franciscus. I mean . . .” Wynona sat back, her cheeks dusky. “I only worked with them for a little while, but it was obvious, you know? Margot, she did what she was told, but I saw her looking at Miss Franciscus sometimes and you know that old saying about how if looks could kill. That’s what I thought.”

“And Margot doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. Neither does Blake.”

“Blake and Sloan were just as bad. Once, I heard Blake say something about wanting the bi . . .” Wynona swallowed the word. “Pardon my French, but I have to say it because that’s what Blake said and I wouldn’t be reporting it right if I didn’t use her words. She was talking about Miss Franciscus and she was mad about something, and she said . . .” She lowered her voice until I had to strain to hear it. “She said, ‘I wish that bitch was dead.’”

It was damning but hardly proof. And time to get to the heart of the matter.

“Which of them liked buttons?” I asked Wynona.

She went still for the space of a couple heartbeats. But then, it was an odd question, so I couldn’t blame her for trying to put it in perspective. Finally, she shrugged. “Well, Miss Franciscus, I guess, since she’s the one who came to you to buy buttons.”

“What about the assistants?”

She took another drink of her hot chocolate. “Not any of them. Not as far as I know. But then, like I said, I was only there a little while.” She set her cup down with a clatter. “Does it matter?”

“Probably not.” For all I knew, that was true. “It’s just that I found a button. In my shop.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized how dumb they sounded, and I added, “I mean, a button that doesn’t belong to me.”

“My goodness! You know your button inventory that well? You’d really know a button that wasn’t yours? When you have so very many of them? It’s not that I’m questioning you or anything,” she said on the end of another blush. “I’m certain you know what you’re doing. It’s just so . . .” A look very much like admiration lit her nondescript eyes. “So amazing!”

“It’s not so amazing. This is a pretty special button,” I said because though I did, actually, feel an affinity for each of the buttons in my collection, I didn’t want to come across looking like a know-it-all. “I’m pretty sure it’s handmade. I wondered if you might know something about it.”

Her smile faded. “I wish I could help. It matters to you, doesn’t it? You must be trying to get the button back to its rightful owner.”

“Something like that,” I said. Let’s face it, Wynona had already admitted that she thought of me as a boring button nerd. If I told her I was helping the police with their investigation, I was pretty sure she’d add
nutcase
to her opinion.

Wynona took another drink of her hot chocolate. “It’s sad, isn’t it? I mean, about Miss Franciscus. She wasn’t . . .” She set down her cup and leaned forward, sharing the confidence. “She wasn’t very nice. I mean, not like I expected her to be. I’ve seen her in so many movies and she’s always . . . I dunno . . . always so beautiful and so much of a lady. But for real . . .” Wynona made a face. “She didn’t treat us very nice. It’s sad to die and that’s pretty much all somebody remembers about you.”

It was.

Except it wasn’t all anybody would remember. Not about Kate Franciscus.

Because the entire world would remember that she’d been murdered.

And the Chicago Police Department would remember that though I was supposed to be one of the foremost button experts in the country, all I ever came up with by way of information that could help them was a big old nothing.

Chapter Ten

I CALLED NEVIN RILEY TWICE THAT NIGHT.

Both times, I got his voice mail.

Both times, I hung up before I had the nerve to leave him a message.

I guess I wasn’t ready to admit that though he thought I was an expert when it came to buttons and a bust when it came to having a personality, he was wrong.

It looked like I was a loser at both.

In spite of talking to Hugh, and to the assistants . . . in spite of researching and researching some more . . . in spite of obsessing about it . . . I was no closer to discovering anything about the mystery button.

That depressing thought was still banging its way around inside my head when I left for the Button Box the next day.

I had a load of sorting and organizing to do, and I was down one assistant, remember, so I’d dressed comfortably that morning in jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt that didn’t so much complement my coloring as it did match the smudges of sleeplessness under my eyes. I’d been too exhausted to fuss with my hair so I had it pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing a Cubs baseball cap and carrying a giant tote bag filled with research books. Yes, I’d already looked through them a dozen times. Yes, I planned to comb through them a dozen times more. Maybe I’d missed a reference, a photo, a clue that would lead me to information about the boxwood button.

And didn’t it figure—no sooner was I out the door of my apartment building than Mike Homolka pounced.

He snapped dozens of shots of me before I even had a chance to say, “There really can’t be anyone in the world who would be interested in buying those pictures from you. Nobody cares about me.”

“Somebody does.” I’d already started to walk away when he darted in front of me and took another shot, just for good measure. “I’ve got a buyer for these pictures.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. It was just that . . . well, I didn’t believe him. I stopped long enough to give him a look that said as much. “It’s too early in the morning to listen to your hogwash.” I sidled between a parked car and a delivery truck and crossed the street. Unlucky for me, he followed. He was at my side before I ever stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. I guess it says something about my rose-colored attitude; I actually tried to reason with the man. “You can’t just take pictures of a person and then sell them. I mean, not pictures of just a regular person. It’s not like I’m a celebrity or anything.”

“Law says I can.” The grin Homolka gave me was no more attractive than the rest of him. “As long as I’m on public property.” He did a quick little dance step against the pavement. “I can take pictures of anything and anyone I want. You should have learned that by now. Anyone who wants to be a big star someday should know things like that.”

“I don’t want to be a star.”

“But you were a theater major.”

I wasn’t going to let on about how very disturbing it was that he knew even that little bit about me. “I was a theater major with a concentration on costuming. I wanted to design costumes for plays and movies. It didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. Most producers and directors aren’t as interested in historical authenticity as they are in saving a few bucks on their productions and I’m too focused on history and . . . , and it doesn’t matter, because I’ve got the best job in the world and I’m happy doing what I’m doing and owning my own business. If you think there’s any more to my story than that, you’re wasting your time.”

“Not according to the e-mail I got last night. The one offering to pay me in return for pictures of you.”

I gave him as careful a look as I could through bleary eyes. I was hoping he’d give me a smirk back, one that proved he was just a sick and twisted joker. Dang! Even my sleep-deprived brain could tell Homolka was as serious as a heart attack.

And I suddenly wasn’t as weary as I was wary.

A chill crawled through my insides and lodged between my stomach and my throat. “You’re not kidding,” I said, my voice raspy thanks to said chill. “Somebody contacted you? About taking pictures of me? Who?”

His shrug said it all. “I’m not one to quibble about the who. Not so much as the how much. All I know is the person wants pics of you e-mailed back, as soon as I get them. He offered me a couple hundred to keep tabs on you.”

Good thing a bus rumbled by. That way, he didn’t hear my gulp when I swallowed hard. “And you’re doing it?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Homolka laughed. “I wouldn’t take photos of my own mother at her birthday party for only a couple hundred bucks.”

The way I figured it, he’d been created out of a batch of smelly pond scum and didn’t have a mother, but I didn’t quibble. I was too creeped out by the thought that someone cared enough about me to want to know what I was up to. “You must know who wants the pictures. The e-mail had to come from someone. You can’t just work for people when you don’t know who they are.”

“Hey, it’s a cash-and-carry sort of business. When the price is right, I know better than to ask questions.”

“And when it isn’t?”

His grin revealed a wide gap between his top front teeth. “Delete, delete, delete,” he said, moving one finger up and down as if he were tapping the computer key.

Like it was a snake and ready to strike, I took a careful look at his camera. “So why are you still taking pictures of me?”

“You’re still news. Or maybe you will be one of these days when you finally decide to talk about Kate the Great’s last moments.”

I was almost grateful he mentioned the murder. At least if I was thinking about the investigation that wasn’t, I didn’t have to think about the person who cared where I was and what I was doing. “I don’t know anything about Kate’s last moments,” I reminded Homolka, even though since I’d told him that before, I shouldn’t have had to repeat myself. “I wasn’t there during her last moments. You know that, because you were right there with me.”

“Yeah, and thanks for mentioning that to the cops, by the way.” Funny, he didn’t sound grateful. “They’ve been bugging me about alibis and motives and all the rest of that bullshit.”

“I was just telling them the truth. You were outside the shop the night Kate was killed. You were there before I got there. You knew she was going to be there because Hugh told you.”

“You talked to him, huh?” Homolka didn’t look surprised. “First the guy couldn’t get it through his thick skull that Kate wanted that prince of hers more than she wanted him. Now all he’s doing is whining and crying and telling me not to tell the cops that I was following Kate for him.”

“But you have told the cops.”

“Absolutely.” I was heading toward the El, and I glanced at him just long enough to see one corner of his mouth pull into a sneer. “You don’t think I’m going to put my neck on the line for a crybaby like Hugh Weaver, do you? I told the cops he paid me to follow Kate. More than a couple hundred bucks, by the way. Much more. I didn’t bother to mention that. No use the feds getting wind of numbers and somebody checking them against what I declare on my taxes. I also told them Weaver knew Kate was going to your shop that night. Yeah, he was the one who told me. And I was waiting there for her. I told the cops that, too, just like I told them that Weaver told me she wasn’t supposed to show up until eight. I got there plenty early so I could wait around, relax, have a couple beers. Only she must have gotten there even earlier than me, because I never saw her arrive. I figured I’d just hang out and have a bird’s-eye view when she showed up. Then you opened your front door and . . .” His shrug was far too casual a gesture to encompass the horror of what I’d found.